Hamburg #3 - Palpitations, Poor Decisions & A Dutch Detour

 

I think it’s Friday, or is it Saturday, or wacaday? today. Woke up feeling pretty fucking weird. Heart racing. Palpitations. A genuine moment of “Am I having a stroke? Or a heart attack? Or both?”

I lay motionless in my hotel bed in Hamburg, staring at the ceiling, trying to slow my breathing and wondering if this was it. Spoiler: it wasn’t. It passed after a couple of hours, but it was enough to shake me. I blamed it on the 4 or 5 coffee liqueur shots I had at some dodgy pub last night. Not grown-up. Not funny. And certainly not clever — well, it might’ve been last night. Today, it was just grim.

After two solid days of excess, my body was politely suggesting I might want to calm the hell down. But life had other plans — we were flying to Amsterdam. Oh dear.

Truthfully, lying there all palpitated and panicking, all I wanted was to go home, crawl under a blanket, and drink herbal tea. But you don’t abandon the lads mid-tour. The show must — and will — go on.

And Amsterdam? It was a blast.

We didn’t do the stereotypical tourist stuff — no weed, no window shopping in the red light district. We just did what we seem to do best: drank, walked around aimlessly, and spent a fucking fortune. Every bar, every round, every bite of food felt like a robbery. Amsterdam is a beautiful city — and she knows it. And she charges accordingly.

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Saturday – Cold, Fucked, and Full of Regret

3rd December 2022

I woke up in what can only be described as a hovel. My hotel room, somewhere along a dirty canal, was freezing cold, dark, and depressingly damp. My throat was sore, my mouth was dry, and I’m fairly certain my drunken snoring had led to an elongated uvula — that dangly bit at the back of your throat — making swallowing uncomfortable and life generally unpleasant. It felt like someone had replaced it with Anne Frank's diary.

At some point in the night, I’d stuck an electric heater on the bedside table, switched it on, and fell asleep with it glowing next to my pillow. Genuinely lucky I didn’t burn the whole canal-side building to the ground, with everyone in it. Stupid boy.

As for Amsterdam — it was a bridge too far after the chaos of Hamburg. My body was done. My brain was mush. My wallet was empty.

Steve and Carlos, in a moment of clarity (or defeat), decided to head to the airport four hours early because they were — and I quote — "cold and fucked."

That left Tim, Mic and me to wander around this overcrowded city being cold and fucked. It was too busy, too chilly, and we were too hungover to enjoy it properly. Amsterdam, we love you, but next time, maybe after a detox retreat.

---

Was so glad to be home, tucking into a post-holiday biryani and vowed to maybe not drink for a month. Or a week. Or... well, let’s not make promises.

Hamburg #2 - Bobble Hats, Anti-Fascists & Warm Wine

Let’s be honest — there was no Thursday morning. Unless, of course, you count being ushered out of a smoky bar at 6am by a bartender who clearly had more patience than we deserved.

We slowly resurrected ourselves, one by one, zombie-like, from the comfort of hotel duvets. The St. Pauli Hotel had done its job: kept us warm and close to the action — and apparently not far from the river either. After wobbling down a series of narrow, graffiti-tagged stone steps behind the Reeperbahn, Carlos, Steve and I made it to the waterfront, where the brisk air slapped the fog out of our heads.

The river, by the way, is the Elbe, Hamburg’s great working waterway. It was grey, moody, and industrial — much like how we felt, and how we like our music (some of us). Still, there was a kind of beauty to it, especially in the stillness of the morning mist (or was that just our hangovers clearing?).

We wandered along the riverside promenade and eventually found salvation in the most unlikely of places: a McDonald's, where hot coffee became a lifeline. We had one round... then another. Gradually, Tim and Michael trickled in, both looking like they'd had a near-death experience — which, after last night, might not be far off.

With caffeine pumping through our veins, we headed to a proper Hamburg institution: the Millerntor-Stadion, home of the cult football club FC St. Pauli. Unfortunately, no match during our visit — their last game had been a 2–0 win against Holstein Kiel a couple of weeks ago, just before the World Cup break. Still, we soaked up the atmosphere of the place and had a good nose around the club shop. I couldn’t resist buying a St. Pauli bobble hat. I can never have too many hats — especially ones with meaning.

Because this club isn't just about football — it's a movement. FC St. Pauli fans are famous for their anti-fascist, anti-racist, and pro-LGBTQ+ stance. Their stadium is covered in rainbow flags, skull-and-crossbones emblems, and banners calling out injustice. It’s punk, it’s proud, and it felt good to support a club with that kind of heart.

From there, we wandered toward one of the coolest hidden gems of the city — the Alter Elbtunnel (Old Elbe Tunnel), completed in 1911. The tunnel snakes beneath the Elbe River, linking the Landungsbrücken piers to the industrial docks on the other side. We descended via a clunky lift, walked the entire tiled passageway under the river, took a look at not much on the other side (let’s be honest), then headed back through the echoing space. Still, it was a cool, surreal experience — like something out of a noir film.

We kept things gentle for the rest of the afternoon. But let's be real: it was only a matter of time before the hair of the dog came barking. And bark it did — straight back into the smoky, late-night bars of Hamburg. This time, we found ourselves in a lively pub full of locals watching Germany crash out of the World Cup, having drawn 1–1 with South Korea. The mood? Quiet rage and disbelief, especially as Japan beat Spain in the other group game. For a moment, our Welsh hearts felt a flicker of shared pain, but only a moment,and only a flicker.

Later, as the evening deepened and inhibitions faded, we took a curious stroll down the Reeperbahn, Hamburg's notorious red-light district. It's equal parts fascinating, seedy, and hilarious — and yes, we had a giggle gawping at the windows of the “working girls,” neon glowing through fogged glass like another scene out of Blade Runner.

We ended the night on a far more wholesome note at the St. Pauli Christmas Market, also known as “Santa Pauli.” Leave it to the Germans to combine festive cheer with saucy humour — this market had everything: mulled wine, bratwurst, Christmas lights, techno DJs, and even cheeky adult-themed Christmas stalls. Naturally, we embraced it all.

We sipped on Glühwein (German mulled wine — sweet, spiced, and very boozy), browsed overpriced trinkets we didn’t need, and spent way too much on food. But it was December, it was Christmas, and it was Hamburg. That’s what you do.

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Coming up next: Will Friday be a quiet one? Probably not.

Hamburg - World Cup Woes and Travel Anticipation

They say Guinness doesn't travel well. But Tim does

There I was, begrudgingly packing my rucksack with all the energy and enthusiasm that Wales showed in their 0–3 defeat to England in the World Cup. It was a dismal performance, the kind that leaves you sighing at the TV and questioning your life choices — like choosing to care about football in the first place. And seriously, a World Cup in November? In Qatar? Right in the middle of the domestic football season? It felt like the sporting equivalent of serving a roast dinner at breakfast.

Still, I had something better to look forward to — a midweek escape to Hamburg with the boys: Tim, Mic, Carlos, Steve, and me. A much-needed getaway to forget the football and replace the gloom with bratwurst, beers, and bad decisions.

Wednesday, 30th November – Arrival in Hamburg and the Madness Begins
We landed in Hamburg late, groggy but buzzing. After navigating the usual airport shuffle, we made our way to the St. Pauli Hotel, our home for the next few days. Nestled in one of Hamburg’s most iconic districts, St. Pauli is the kind of place that wears its heart — and tattoos — on its sleeve. Known for its punk-rock past, rebellious spirit, and wild nightlife, it's a melting pot of music venues, dive bars, eccentric locals, and late-night kebab stalls that feel like they've seen things.

The moment we dropped our bags, we hit the streets in true Welsh fashion — no time for naps, we had a city to conquer.

But there was one thing we hadn’t anticipated: smoke. Thick, curling, ever-present cigarette smoke. In bar after bar, it was like stepping back into the early 2000s. The air was dense, our throats burned, and our eyes watered. None of us smoke, and we’re used to the clean-lunged laws of the UK — so it hit us like a hangover before the first pint.

Still, we powered through, fuelled by lager, laughter, and the kind of chaotic camaraderie only old friends can bring. The night turned into early morning in a haze of neon lights and half-remembered conversations. We laughed too loudly, danced too poorly, and talked nonsense to strangers who were somehow kind enough to tolerate us.

One moment sticks with me, though: being politely (yet firmly) thrown out of a bar at 6am by a weary bartender who just wanted to go home. “Go sleep now,” she muttered, shaking her head with a tired smile. And honestly, she wasn’t wrong.

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Next up: exploring Hamburg by daylight — assuming we make it out of bed.

La Palma - Days Five & Six – Landslides, Queues and Escape Plans

La Palma → Tenerife → Manchester

The night was long, loud, and wet — not in the fun way. Rain hammered the roof with the sort of aggression usually reserved for angry drummers, and at some point, the power gave up entirely. A blackout in the jungle. Perfect.

We were up before dawn, stumbling around the Treehouse in phone-torchlight, stuffing wet clothes into wet bags, trying not to trip over buckets catching leaks. By 6am, we were on the road — or, at least, trying to be. Halfway to the airport, the road simply… ended. No sign, no warning — just a giant wall of mud and rock where tarmac used to be. A landslide. Proper movie-scene stuff.

A winding detour got us to La Palma Airport (SPC) just in time to find everyone was there. We hadn’t seen this many people since we landed. Clearly, the cancelled flights were starting to catch up with the island.

Announcements echoed through the terminal — all in Spanish, naturally. The only thing we understood was the rising tension. A large queue was forming, and after a few confused conversations and several blank stares, we realised: that was our queue. To find out what the hell was happening with our £11 flight to Madrid.

Three hours later — three hours of fluorescent lights, snaking lines, and low-level existential dread — we finally reached the Ryanair desk, where we were politely but unceremoniously told: flights cancelled. Find your own hotel. Claim it back. Come back on Thursday.

Thursday!?

It was Monday. We were done. Wet, wired, and running out of dry pants.

Room with a ceiling view

Regrouping was essential. We found a last-minute room in Santa Cruz de La Palma — pure luck, as most other travellers were now scrambling for accommodation like musical chairs in a monsoon. Beer was required. We hit the town.

Over drinks and damp tapas menus, I scoured the internet (thank god for 4G) and found a flight still running to Tenerife South the next day — one corner of the Canaries seemingly untouched by Hermine’s wrath. It would mean a transfer on to Manchester, so no Madrid unfortunately. Two tickets: £398 (thank you Mastercard). Not quite the £11 steal we’d booked originally, but it was a way off the island. We’d fight Ryanair for the refund another day. Tonight, we drank.

Tuesday morning. Still raining. Still pitch dark. Our taxi rolled up like something out of Blade Runner: Island Edition, headlights cutting through the mist as we threw bags into the boot.

Back at the airport, the flight was — of course — delayed. Just 30 minutes, though. But with only a narrow window to make our connection in Tenerife South (a big, chaotic, shouty airport), tension was creeping back in.

Fortunately, our pilot had apparently had enough of La Palma. He floored it. Shaved twenty minutes off the flight. Legend.

We landed, legged it through the terminal like wet rats with a mission, and made our Manchester flight with a few minutes to spare.

By 9pm that evening, we were back on home turf. Damp, dishevelled, knackered — but victorious.

---

Final thoughts?

La Palma: raw, surreal, unforgettable. A place that throws beauty, chaos, silence, and storms at you in equal measure. We came for volcanoes and red wine; we got rockslides, floods, cancelled flights, and some of the wildest swimming conditions known to man. And I’d do it again.

Though maybe next time I’ll check the weather first. Or at least turn my phone on.

La Palma - Day Four – Storm? What Storm?

Still raining. Still absolutely lashing it down like someone opened the Atlantic sky and forgot to close it.

We made a second (doomed) attempt to reach Roque de los Muchachos today — determined to see the island from its highest peak before we left. But any hope was quickly dashed. The roads were a mess. Not just puddles and potholes, but full-on rockfalls scattered across the tarmac like nature was playing Jenga with the mountainside. After swerving around one too many boulder-sized “souvenirs,” I called it. Not worth wrecking the Fiat, or ourselves.

Plan B? Embrace the chaos.

So we spent the afternoon hopping between deserted beaches, watching the rough Atlantic ocean crash and rage. It was mesmerising, almost theatrical — the kind of waves you’d normally watch from a documentary voiceover, not from a black-sand shoreline in a rain-soaked t-shirt.

At one point, huddled under an abandoned BBQ hut on a rocky beach with the rain hammering down, we cobbled together lunch: slices of wet rye bread, a tin of something mysterious, and this absolute gem we’d found earlier — Sendi, a mustard-dill sauce (German, I think?) that tastes like someone spiked honey mustard with fresh dill and made it magic. Weirdly perfect on rye. The bread was a bit soggy from the weather, but we were too hungry to care. Possibly one of the best accidental meals I’ve ever had — a soggy, mustardy, storm-lashed triumph.

Somewhere between beaches, we learned the culprit had a name: Storm Hermine. It had officially hit La Palma — a full-blown tropical storm. Locals were being advised to stay indoors. Government announcements. Weather alerts. Civil protection warnings.

And us? Blissfully sauntering around the island like characters in a Wes Anderson film — entirely unaware, thanks to our noble “no-scroll” policy and the complete absence of Wi-Fi at The Treehouse. Digital detox goals achieved, apparently. Though, in hindsight, a little push notification might’ve been handy.

By the time we made it back to the house (via the now river-like volcanic track), it felt like we were starring in a mildly chaotic survival documentary. Rain battered the roof, trees groaned in the wind, and the living room had developed its own charming little waterfall — straight through the ceiling. The bedroom wasn’t faring much better, with water dribbling its way down the walls like a bad art installation. We moved the bed just in time to avoid a full soaking. Getaway cabin in the woods? More like punk-rock ark.

Catching the leaks

Then came the kicker: flights in and out of La Palma? Cancelled.

Oh. Shit.

We're now stranded on a storm-lashed island, huddled in a damp cabin halfway up a volcano, listening to garage punk and hoping the ceiling holds. And honestly? There's something kind of brilliant about it. Uncomfortable, yes. Slightly terrifying, also yes. But unforgettable? Absolutely.

And somewhere — probably buried in a soggy backpack — is Nick Kent’s The Dark Stuff, now less inflight entertainment and more disaster-holiday bedtime reading.

Let’s see what Monday brings. Preferably a dry towel and a clear flight path.

La Palma - Day Three – Rockfalls, Rain & a Punk Pilgrimage Postponed

By the time we emerged from the Treehouse this morning, the sun had all but vanished behind a thick, low-slung ceiling of cloud. Then came the rain — not gentle, poetic drizzle, but a torrential, relentless downpour that left no room for subtlety. Warm, wild, and biblical. Proper lluvia de puta madre.

Our plan had been a pilgrimage of sorts — to hike to Roque de los Muchachos, the highest point on La Palma, and the namesake of a punk band we (Spam Javelin) have shared stages and shouted choruses with more times than I can count. But with visibility reduced to zilch and the mountains swallowed by clouds, the idea of scrambling along cliff edges in soaked boots lost some of its appeal.

Instead, we pointed the Fiat 500 toward Los Tilos, a lush, fern-draped part of the island known for its waterfalls and laurel forests — a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, as it turns out, and technically part of Parque Natural de Las Nieves. The roads, slick with rain and eerily deserted, wound deeper into the forest. We swerved around rockfalls, some still fresh enough to leave clouds of dust in the air. The road to the falls was officially closed, of course — another victim of the storm — but with waterproofs zipped and curiosity piqued, we decided to go on foot.

It felt like entering another world. Thick vegetation, steaming under the rain, footpaths cutting through dripping forest and sheer cliff faces. On the way, we met two drenched girls who — in broken English but clear concern — warned us of falling rocks. We thanked them, and pushed on cautiously, sticking to the far edge of the road and avoiding anything that looked remotely unstable.

About three miles in, we reached a dramatic gorge — dry now, but clearly capable of hosting epic torrents when in full flow. But before we could reach the waterfall proper, our way was blocked by a padlocked gate. Beyond it, the path snaked along the side of a near-vertical cliff. Could we have jumped the gate? Easily. Should we have? Not in a million years. It looked stunning — and genuinely dangerous. We stood there in silence for a moment, soaking it all in. The sound of rain on the leaves, the mist rising off the valley, the sheer scale of the place. Even without reaching the falls, it was breathtaking.

Back at the car, soaked to the skin and still buzzing, we decided to head east to Charco Azul, a natural seawater pool in San Andrés. By the time we arrived, the rain had turned torrential again, and the place was utterly deserted. Shops shuttered, streets empty, waves pounding the seawall like a war drum.

Perfect.

We slipped into the lagoon — just the two of us — protected from the wrath of the Atlantic by high black volcanic walls. Waves smashed against the other side, occasionally surging over the barrier in huge salty bursts, while massive black crabs clung to the rock, seemingly unimpressed by our aquatic enthusiasm. It was exhilarating, slightly mad, and completely unforgettable.

Two soaked Welsh punks swimming alone in a rain-lashed volcanic pool as the Atlantic roared around us.

La Palma doesn’t make things easy — but that’s exactly what makes it worth it.

La Palma - Day Two – Into the Ashes

Our first full day in La Palma, and I realise this trip almost completes my personal tour of the Canary Islands — Lanzarote’s surreal lava fields, Fuerteventura’s endless sand dunes, the pine-forested peaks of Tenerife (twice), and the jungled ravines of La Gomera. Does a layover in Gran Canaria count? Probably not, but it’s on the list all the same.

Today, I set my sights on something a little more haunting: the volcano caves near Todoque. I’d read about the lava tubes formed during past eruptions and thought a journey south would make a good day trip. But what began as idle curiosity turned into something far more intense.

Driving south through the sleepy town of Los Canarios, the road began to twist and drop — and without realising it, we were suddenly in the heart of the destruction zone from the 2021 eruption of Cumbre Vieja.

It hit hard.

A temporary road has been carved directly through solidified lava — a jarring black scar running through what used to be homes, gardens, lives. One moment, you’re passing banana plantations and sleepy whitewashed villages; the next, you’re cruising through an alien world of twisted, frozen rock. The lava didn’t just stop at the edge of town — it devoured it. Entire ground floors of buildings are buried, their upper stories bizarrely poking out like surreal sculptures in a charcoal sea.

We pulled over at one point, near where Todoque used to be. What was once a village is now silence and ash. You can trace the path the lava took from the ridge above — a vast, brutal black ribbon stretching down from the Cumbre Vieja like a wound. It’s breathtaking in scale, yes — but it’s also horrifying. You don’t just see the eruption's impact; you feel it. The weight of it. The stillness after chaos. I forgot to take any photos, was just dumbfounded at the sight around us.

After some quiet reflection, we carried on through to Los Llanos de Aridane, one of La Palma’s livelier towns, where life feels like it’s cautiously returning to something like normal. The drive back was a little more optimistic, passing through the island’s famous tunnels — I believe they're called Túneles de la Cumbre — piercing through the central mountains, linking the wetter east to the drier, sunnier west. It’s a bit like driving from one island to another in the space of five minutes.

But before heading home, we made an impromptu stop at Playa de Tazacorte — a black-sand beach on the island’s west coast. The sea, though moody, was calm enough to tempt us in. We stripped down and dove into the Atlantic, swimming under moody grey skies with jagged cliffs rising all around us. The sand here is volcanic, fine and jet black — strange at first underfoot, but warm and soft once you surrender to it.

Swimming there, with the weight of the morning’s volcanic devastation still lingering in our minds, felt weirdly cathartic. The ocean didn’t care. The island was still breathing.

Back at The Treehouse, the emotional weight of the day gave way to a different kind of haze. We opened another bottle of Teneguía, cranked up some more fuzzed-out punk rock, and got... well, fairly drunk under the stars. It felt necessary — a toast to the resilience of this little island and its people, and maybe a way to process the weird emotional cocktail of awe, grief, and admiration I’d just experienced.

Tomorrow, we hike — and maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally learn how to say una cerveza más without sounding like a total tourist.

La Palma - Day One - Treehouse Unplugged

 

Bleary-eyed but buzzing, Tracey and I rolled into Manchester Airport in the pitch-black hours of the morning, chasing the tail of summer to the Canary Islands. At precisely 5:45am, our flight took off bound for Gran Canaria – officially Aeropuerto de Gran Canaria, though by that point, I was too busy fidgeting with my seatbelt and cracking open Nick Kent’s The Dark Stuff to care. A raw and, at times, electrifying collection of essays — the perfect high-altitude escape. As the plane hummed over the Atlantic, I silently vowed to write more, read more, and scroll a hell of a lot less. Social media, after all, has become a digital landfill: toxic, noisy, and rarely nourishing.

From Gran Canaria, we caught a connecting flight – one of those rickety, charming little propeller planes – to Aeropuerto de La Palma (SPC). As we descended toward the island, it became clear: La Palma is wild, green, and refreshingly unpolished. But there’s a catch – barely anyone here speaks English. And my Spanish? Basura. Complete and utter trash.

Nevertheless, we picked up our hire car — a cute little Fiat 500 that looked more at home on a Milanese boulevard than the rugged volcanic tracks of this tiny island. Still, it handled the heat and hills like a champ. And it was hot. Proper, unrelenting, Sahara-winds-through-your-hair hot. If only I had hair...

Our base for the next five days was “The Treehouse” – not quite in the trees, but tucked away down a brutally long and rocky volcanic track. I found myself deeply grateful that this was a rental and not my poor, battered car back home. The house itself was…romantic, in a minimalist kind of way. Spartan, stripped-back, and blissfully without Wi-Fi – which meant no doomscrolling, no inbox refreshes, no TikTok rabbit holes. Just a solid 4G signal that let us stream some grimy garage punk on Spotify as the sun went down and the red wine flowed.

Speaking of which – the local tipple? We stumbled across a bottle of Teneguía, one of La Palma’s volcanic reds. Rustic, earthy, and just wild enough around the edges to suit the mood. It paired perfectly with a balcony view of the sun dipping behind silhouetted banana palms and distant lava fields.

By nightfall, the stars began to show — and they really show here. La Palma is a designated “Starlight Reserve,” and with no light pollution, the sky turned into something out of an observatory dreamscape.

This place is already working its way into my bones. It's raw and real and beautifully inconvenient. A reminder that sometimes the best kind of luxury is the kind that strips everything away, not adds more.

Tomorrow: volcano trails, black-sand beaches, and hopefully less butchering of the Spanish language.

Hasta 

Moscow, Merseyrail and a Midnight March

 

It all started with a summer’s afternoon drive to Abergele to ditch the car, followed by hopping on a train to Liverpool with Declan and Rich. The journey, as ever, was a mix of quaint rural views and general chatter. The Merseyrail stretch as always was an epic endurance test: station after station after station... It felt like we stopped at every brick shed with a platform between Chester and Liverpool.

And let’s not even begin on the Merseyrail guards, who seem to fancy themselves as some sort of rail-bound Gestapo — checking tickets with an officious flair and glaring at anyone who dared sit with their feet on a seat. No toilets on the train either, of course — just in case the trip wasn’t uncomfortable enough.

But we made it. Our destination: The Quarry, a DIY venue tucked into the alternative seams of Liverpool’s underground. We were there for Moscow Death Brigade — the balaclava-wearing, antifascist, techno-punk-rap outfit from Russia. Live, they’re pure intensity: no breaks, no filler, just pounding beats, spitting rhymes, and circle-pit nonsense.

Asfixia Social kicked off with brutal energy, a hybrid blistering punk riffs, swaggering rap verses, ska interludes, metal‑tinged breakdowns, and Brazilian percussion. Yeah they're from São Paulo, Brazil and on their 'Planet Is Alive' tour.

Then came Old Radio, a band that only seem to come out on special occasions, and tonight was just that. Good to see/hear their ska'd punk sound and energy.

But alas, we were slaves to the timetable — the last train out of Lime Street loomed, so we had to leg it. We hit Rhyl at 1:45am and there were no taxis. Seriously. This is Rhyl in peak summer — where were the drunken holidaymakers spilling chips and fighting at the taxi rank? Where were the cabs?

Nowhere.

So, we said goodbye to Rich and then Declan and I did the only thing a men can do when faced with five miles of empty road and no options: we walked. Mild weather, thankfully. And there was some late-night drama in Towyn to keep things interesting — a group of travellers in a full-on brawl with themselves and the police. A roadside festival of fists, blue lights and confusion.

Eventually, Towyn became Belgrano and Belgrano became Pensarn and Abergele loomed into view like a sleepy promised land. Declan peeled off home and I got back behind the wheel for the final stretch — a quiet, questioning one-hour drive to the caravan, spent wondering:

Why the hell didn’t I just drive a bit further and get the train from Rhyl?

Neil Crud on Louder Than War Radio 25.04.2022 – Mwstard in session

 

Mwstard are a tribalistic prepostpunk band from West Wales – they have 4 archive session tracks on tonight’s show.

Sadly no longer an active unit, they have left a legacy of a superb album ‘Cloc’ which you’ll find among other gems on their bandcamp page.

The session was recorded on this day in 2018 and originally broadcast on my TudnoFM show… The four songs eventually became part of the Resolution EP. 

 

FULL SHOW PLAYLIST
Alffa – Babi Mam
John – Šibensko Powerhouse
AxeRash – Ostrich Man
Oorya – Chips
Mwstard – Scandal Broth (*session)
Get Greens – Bongwater
Ponderosa Glee Boys – Waiting For The Sun
Bruise Control – Sabotage
Fuzz Lightyear – Berlin, 1885
Goldblade – Black Elvis
DFA – Strangely Attractive
Elfyn Presli – Jackboots Magi Thatcher
Mwstard – Resolution (*session)
Sad State Of Society – Frack You
Cow – When the Darkness Gets You Down
Awkward Geisha – No Fucking
Career Suicide – Cut and Run
The Red Bastards – The Eternal Hole
Warlockhunt – Sacred Skin
Dub War – Mental
Dense – Erased
Mwstard – Shadowmoss (*session)
BOMBARDEMENT – Rends L’Argent
The High Rip – You Still Believe
Intense Degree – Skate Bored
Salt The Snail – All Hell
The Pulsebeats – Burn The Guy
Pink Room – All Breaks No Gas
Valleum – Let’s Wrestle
Mwstard – Ondividual (*session)
Adam Walton – Emily Said (on Account of the Days)
Six Score – Meatdustry
Cosmo Jones Beat Machine – Dr Butt’s Dispensary
High Vis – Talk For Hours
DOA & Jello Biafra – Attack Of The Peacekeepers

Bruise Control / Fuzz Lightyear @ Big Hands, Manchester

 

Big Hands is such a great venue - it has cool staff and a cool vibe. Drinking our way there from the centre of town it turned out the first band weren't on until 10pm. So this meant two hours of supping and chilling out to the best playlist I've never heard... The tunes were perfect for the mood; all dirty, sleazy and all from the garage of life.

Fuzz Lightyear had played a festival earlier today and waded into Big Hands a little flustered, but were ready to rock and roll by the promised 10pm. I'm still pondering as to whether the name Fuzz Lightyear is pure genius or totally ridiculous - probably both. This doesn't detract from the fact they deliver an audacious sound straight outta Leeds. It's noisegaze, post-hardcore, garage-fuzz, call it what you want, I thought it was simply neat. Psychedelic intricate guitars are built around Ben Parry's distinct vocals and the band pull no punches. The recent expansive addition of Alex Calder on guitar / synth brings a hint of the direction they're heading and the destination is exciting. Their volatile debut EP 'Fuzz II' brought a welcome grunge strewn barrage of noise, but there is more to come out the Fuzz locker.

Bruise Control are on home turf and the cruise control is set to max. The pedal is rammed against the metal and there's RedX in the tank. The turbo-goths have necked a fistful of pills from their Nan's medicine cabinet, washed them down with cans of Monster and they're gonna get GTA on your ass.
Fronted by the cartoon character that is Jimbob Taylor, who must live in a tin shack, surrounded by chickens on the side of a dusty highway, Bruise Control rocked my world. They trashed through their repertoire, kicking, screaming, spitting and shagging. Your head is forced down the toilet and is repeatedly flushed as they laugh at your misery.
This is cowpunk hardcore nonsense for deadbeats - YOU are a deadbeat - catch Bruise Control on tour with Sniff in May.
I have just ticked a box I didn't have to tick.

This Town Is Big Enough For All Of Us - Sparks in MCR

Twice in a week I've been to a gig and been among the youngest in the audience...

Someone couldn't go and I ended up with a ticket and hotel room and watching Sparks at the magnificent Albert Hall in Manchester. Plus the added bonus of being chaperoned along the M56.

Sparks are not a band I've paid much attention to since being scared to death as a schoolkid watching Top Of The Pops. The image on Ron Mael's staring eyes and inscrutable countenance as he sat rigid at his keyboards would leave 'us kids' terrified. His Adolf Hitler 'tache and flick had you both laughing and being scared at the same time. His younger brother, Russell would be prancing about the stage as they mimed Beat The Clock.

Fast forward 40 years and little has changed... Ron and Russell are now 76 and 73 years old. Ron has warmed slightly, ditched the Hitler 'tache for a pencil version, and shows signs of being almost human. Russell is still prancing and pirouetting (tho they didn't play Beat The Clock).

Apart from the obvious song, I think I barely recognised another old hit and something off the new album 'A Steady Drip Drip' that's been receiving airplay lately. That's no reason to not enjoy the show... I loved every second and every element about it; from the secret bar tucked away at the back of the balcony, to the extended ovations from a rapturous audience, to the choice of songs from a back catalogue that spans half a century.

That's right... Sparks began at the start of the 70s as Half Nelson, and delving into that era, it's evident they were out on a limb musically, and have kind of stuck to it and let trends find them rather than the other way.

One funny anecdote, I always assumed they were German band...!!! Ha...!